


Let Your Body Move

by dizzzylu



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Fingerfucking, M/M, Oral Sex, Public Sex, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-09
Updated: 2011-10-09
Packaged: 2017-10-24 11:03:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzzylu/pseuds/dizzzylu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A birthday fic for annundriel. Not sure she remembers the Twitter convo we had that spawned this fic, but that's ok. Happy birthday, bb. Hope you like it!</p><p>Big thanks to my betas akadougal and perfumaniac <3</p><p>(some changes were made after they looked at it, so any remaining errors are my own)</p>
    </blockquote>





	Let Your Body Move

**Author's Note:**

> A birthday fic for annundriel. Not sure she remembers the Twitter convo we had that spawned this fic, but that's ok. Happy birthday, bb. Hope you like it!
> 
> Big thanks to my betas akadougal and perfumaniac <3
> 
> (some changes were made after they looked at it, so any remaining errors are my own)

Misha stands hunched over at the starting line of the track, elbows on his knees, breathless and sweaty, his t-shirt uncomfortably damp from sweat and the drizzle that's started to fall. It's not so bad that he can't work through his stretches outside before hitting the showers, but he doesn't exactly take his time.

Just as he's finishing up with his calves, a bolt of lightening streaks through the sky and he realizes the drizzle is starting to fall harder, turning into fat drops that smack against the track. Misha doesn't run across the field to get to the open gym doors, but he doesn't waste any time, either. At least, not until he gets a step beyond the doors and hears a pair of voices, pitched low but still echoing through the weight room. Misha looks around, eyes squinting to adjust to the light to see who they belong to.

He finds Coach Morgan near the squat rack, hands on his hips and his head tipped down. His body is blocking whoever it is he's talking to, but Misha can hear him saying, "Slow and easy. This isn't a race." A pause, then, "Good, now hold it. Two, three, four, five and up. Slow. Good job, Jensen. Four more. And down."

Misha doesn't need him to move to know just which Jensen Coach is talking about. There's only one Jensen in this school: star of the baseball team, National Honor Society Member, FBLA president, all around good guy, and Misha's boyfriend.

Sure enough, Coach circles around the machine and there's the back Misha knows so well, shoulders flexing underneath flawless golden skin. The slim waist and tight, firm ass. Even the muscles in his calves look amazing. Misha's mouth waters at the sight.

His eyes follow Jensen into three more squats, each one slow and focused. Each time Coach tells him to hold the squat, Misha can see the fine trembling of Jensen's thighs. The first time it happens, his eye flick up to see how much weight is on the bar. Two small discs, probably fifteen pounds each, but the bar is another forty-five. Misha frowns. It's not that he doesn't trust Coach to know what he's doing, or thinks he wants to hurt his star shortstop, but Misha still makes a mental note to give Jensen's injured knee some extra TLC tonight.

As Jensen hooks the weight back onto the rack, Coach Morgan mutters something low and quiet and pats Jensen on the shoulder. Jensen replies and nods and watches Coach leave. He stands frozen for a handful of seconds, eyes still on the door, then carefully limps over to the bench press and collapses on a sigh.

Misha lets him get a couple of reps in before winding his way through the machines and stopping just short of Jensen's feet. Jensen's eyes are closed and his breathing is too loud to hear Misha's steps and Misha knows better than to startle someone holding one hundred pounds over his head, so he waits. Waits and watches.

This close, he can see the individual drops of sweat on Jensen's face and shoulders, pooling in the hollow of his throat and the defined muscles of his abs. Jensen's shorts ride low, exposing the waistband of his Calvin Kleins, but it's the trail of hair that disappears under them that Misha focuses on. Dark and wet with sweat, Misha's fingers itch to smooth over it, both with and against the grain. He knows well how the muscles there will tremble underneath his fingertips, his tongue. The scrape of his teeth.

The clang of the bar being set into its cradle jars Misha's attention. He shakes his head and looks up. Jensen's eyes are still closed, pinched tight against the sweat sliding along his brow and lashes. His arms hang down at his sides, muscles still twitching from the exertion. Misha sticks one knee out to bump Jensen's.

Jensen doesn't open his eyes. "Who is it?"

"Guess," Misha says in a gravely falsetto.

"Mmm. Kristin." Jensen purrs the name, a sly smile curving his lips. "Finally decided to take me up on your offer?" He sits up and flails for his towel. Misha grabs it from the next bench over and hands it to him.

"Oh yeah, baby," Misha continues, voice still artificially high. "I want you to take me right here, right now." He waits, smiling, as Jensen towels off his face and finally opens his eyes.

"Oh," says Jensen. "It's only you." His tone is flat, but his eyes twinkle and he scoots back on the bench, a leg on either side, to make room for Misha.

Misha smacks him on the shoulder anyway, the sound echoing in the empty room. "Only me. Fuck you." He's grinning, though, and carefully lifts Jensen's injured knee to hook it over his own, bringing them closer. Jensen manages the other leg on his own, and Misha closes the distance between them, kissing Jensen slow and methodic. He tastes like sweat and mints and the caramel macchiatos he loves to mainline from the Starbucks on the corner (that the students aren't supposed to leave campus for, but do anyway).

"How's it feel?" Misha asks, voice and eyes soft. He drags his knuckles over Jensen's bum knee.

"It's fine," Jensen grunts, leaning in to kiss Misha again. Misha skirts his mouth and looks down; Jensen's mouth lands on his cheek. There's a wet flicker of tongue over stubble before Jensen realizes what's happened. He sighs.

"It's swollen, Jensen."

"It's _fine_ , Misha." Misha tries to stare him down, but Jensen can be obstinate when Misha tries to take care of him. Secretly, Misha finds it cute, but Jensen hates cute, so Misha schools his features into something he hopes looks more stern.

Jensen glares right back, but twines his fingers with Misha's anyway. "Coach knows what he's doing. He's not going to let me push myself."

Misha lifts and drops a shoulder and kisses Jensen again, a quick peck on the plush bow of his lip. "You're still coming over tonight." Another kiss on the corner of his mouth. "Tonight's mom's pottery class." Slips his tongue along the shell of Jensen's ear. "And Mark's got a study date with Em." Uses sharp teeth to nip at the lobe. "We'll have the house all to ourselves."

Jensen rubs his cheek against Misha, reaches out to wrap warm fingers around Misha's wrists. His voice is velvet smooth in Misha's ear as he says, "And you'll wait on me hand and foot?"

Misha looks down between them and smiles at the obvious tenting of their shorts. "Only if you're really, _really_ good." With Jensen's hand still gripping him, Misha slips nimble fingers under the waistband of Jensen's boxers and tugs, exposing the head of his cock to the spring-damp air around them.

"Mish." Jensen's voice cracks at the end and his fingers tighten, thumb digging into Misha's pulse, but he doesn't stop Misha from stroking him loose and slow from base to tip. "I feel gross."

Misha cuts him off with a kiss, fucking into Jensen's mouth with languid rolls of his tongue. Jensen groans low in his throat, and Misha pulls away just enough to say, "Feel great to me." His lips bump against Jensen's and he thumbs at Jensen's slit to prove his point. Jensen shudders.

"Not here," he tries again, voice and resolve weakening. "Coach might--"

Misha cuts him off, voice hoarse. "No, he won't." Asks, quieter still, "Do you trust me?" He knowing the answer but wants to hear it anyway. Jensen's slower to trust than most, and Misha works very hard to not take advantage of it like someone else would. But this is their last year in high school, and even with his hair plastered to his head, soaked in sweat, Jensen looks amazing and he's _right there_ and Misha has never been known to deny himself of what he wants.

"Yes," Jensen answers, drawing out the sibilant before dragging his teeth against the line of Misha's jaw. Misha palms Jensen's chest with his free hand as Jensen nips at Misha's pulse, worrying the skin with teeth and tongue.

"Then lie down," Misha says, pushing at his chest. Jensen snags Misha's lip with his teeth before he tilts back and lays flat on the bench.

Carefully, Misha eases himself out from under Jensen's legs and stands. Grips Jensen by his thighs and pulls him closer to the end. The movement is stuttered with the friction of skin-on-vinyl and Jensen being very little help, but he gets there eventually and peels Jensen's shorts and boxers off in quick, efficient tugs.

Hands gripping Jensen's legs, Misha drops to his knees. Presses open-mouthed kisses to the sweat-slick skin of Jensen's calves, working his way up to the crease of his thigh. Jensen is trembling already, cock hard and precome pearling at the slit. Misha soothes him with long, firm strokes of his palms along his flanks.

Misha hovers over Jensen's balls and inhales deeply, letting Jensen bounce his uninjured leg on his toes in nervous arousal. Jensen smells dark and heady here, a natural scent that Misha is sure he would know anywhere. He laps at Jensen, a slow drag of tongue along the seam of his balls. Jensen groans.

From beneath the fan of his lashes, Misha glances along the length of Jensen's body; from the curve of his cock to his concave belly, his heaving chest flushed red and gleaming, and the strain of his biceps, clinging to the posts of the bench. As eighteen year olds, it doesn't take much more than a light breeze from the right direction to get them hard and leaking. But seeing Jensen like this, naked and wanting and supplicant, is instant aphrodisiac. Misha palms the bulge straining at his shorts.

He sits up on his knees and chains a line of kisses along the spine of Jensen's cock, slips his tongue down and back up again before placing a kiss on the tip and sinking onto it until his lips meet his fist. Dimly, he registers Jensen's groaned, "Oh shit," muffled against his arm.

Misha only bobs up and down a few times; happy as he is to suck Jensen off any time, any place, he wants to get Jensen quick. Mostly because he plans on taking his time later, when they can lay out in his bed. But he also isn't as sure as he sounded that Coach Morgan won't come back, so he pulls off of Jensen with a wet pop, tongues at the slit, then shifts lower.

He reaches out to Jensen's good leg with one hand and pulls at his shorts with the other. Automatically, Jensen's legs fall wider and Misha chuckles, low and knowing. He lifts this same leg, pushing it up with a palm at the back of his thigh and, before he can ask, Jensen hooks a hand under his knee, already knowing what's coming. Misha rests the other leg over his shoulder, mindful of the injury by making sure Jensen won't be able to put much pressure on it.

Misha uses his thumbs to open Jensen up to him. Uses the saliva pooled on his tongue to slick over Jensen's hole in insistent, searching flicks. Jensen's legs hitch and he yelps, hoarse. Misha lets up only a little, softening his touch into long, slow licks from just above the hole to the perineum. The leg on his shoulder twitches, muscles clenching and unclenching. Above him, Jensen sobs. Misha's cock throbs in response.

He repositions his hand on Jensen's slick skin and opens him wider, revealing his dark pink pucker. The tip of Misha's tongue teases at it once, tiny kitten licks at the rim, then he leans in further, fingertips digging in to firm muscle, and uses wide, bold swipes to relax the muscle.

Pulling back, he uses one thumb to rub circles around Jensen's hole, catches his nail on the edge to make Jensen jerk and hiss Misha's name. The tip of it slips in up to the first knuckle, and Misha pushes it in and out.

Unfortunately, Misha can't get very deep with just his thumb, so he pulls out and uses a finger instead, pushing slow and steady until it's in to the hilt. Jensen is white hot around him, clenching tight at the base, and the friction feels even better pulling out. He does this a few times, until Jensen loosens up and he can get two fingers in, using more of his saliva to slick the way.

With two fingers, Misha can hold Jensen open better, dart the tip of his tongue in and out. Make Jensen writhe with wanting to push down and take Misha's tongue deeper. Misha wants that too, and leans forward enough to press his open mouth against Jensen's skin, getting his tongue as far as possible. Between the blood rushing in his ears and the leg squeezing tight to his head, Misha can just barely hear Jensen's cries.

 _That_ , he reminds himself, will come later.

Misha fingers keep sliding steadily in and out until Jensen's hips buck, and he smiles; makes sure to keep to that angle and hit the prostate over and over. Jensen's leg clings tight to Misha's back and his hips hitch into the touch. With one last lingering fuck of his tongue, Misha's fingers buried to the hilt, Jensen's whole body clenches tight through his orgasm; his growled cursing sounding overly loud in the empty room. Misha uses his other hand, fingers slotted between Jensen's, to help pump Jensen's cock. Keeps going, head tilted against Jensen's thigh, until Jensen slows and eventually stills.

With spit-slick fingers, Misha takes the weight of Jensen's good leg and helps it fall to the floor, still trembling. He's even gentler with the other leg, pressing a kiss to the offending knee before easing himself out from under it. He manages to get up, legs wobbly and cock throbbing, and laughs openly at a fucked out Jensen; head lose and rolling from side to side, arms spread and dangling in mid-air, stomach and chest spattered with come, cock limp.

"Christ, you're crazy," Jensen says, eyes closed, but smiling. Misha watches the bob of his Adam's apple.

"I thought that's why you loved me, for my endearing spontaneity."

Jensen hums. "Nah. I only keep you around because you give good head."

Misha smacks at Jensen's thigh, says, "I think you're forgetting something," and waits until Jensen peeks an eye open to look down. There's an obvious wet spot on Misha's running shorts.

"Ugh, you have a hand," he says, waving his own in the air.

"Why would I do that when your mouth is so much better?"

Jensen pretends to consider that a moment, then finally relents. "Okay, get over here." He hooks a leg around Misha's and pulls him closer as he sits up.

Misha's eyes slip shut and he palms the back of Jensen's head, fingers sifting through sweat-damp hair. The heat of Jensen's mouth through his shorts is expected, even the graze of Jensen's teeth over the head is nice, makes him moan. But instead of sliding his fingers under the waistband and pulling the shorts down, Jensen skims his palms up Misha's sides, pushing his shirt up, and bites a kiss into the jut of Misha's hip.

"Asshole," Misha growls out, fondness warming his tone.

Jensen digs his chin into Misha's belly and grins. "I thought that's why you loved me." He's trying to parrot Misha's former glibness, but the heat in his eyes says something altogether different.

"Mostly it was for your cock-sucking lips. Speaking of which…" He drags his fingernails along the length of Jensen's neck and grins when his pupils expand.

"Now who's the asshole," Jensen says, biting again at the bruise he started. Before Misha can respond, Jensen yanks Misha's short down just enough to expose his cock and balls, and takes Misha into his mouth in one smooth slide.

Misha knows how much Jensen hates the phrase, and he honestly doesn't use very often, but Jensen is very, _very_ good at sucking cock. Gets Misha good and wet, uses the barest hint of teeth over the slit. His tongue follows the vein, flat and rough, then rubs at the knot of nerves just under the head. And then, because that isn't quite enough to get Misha gasping for air and clutching at Jensen's hair, Jensen sinks deep and swallows. Does it again when Misha's hips thrust at the flutter of muscles.

Misha's struggling for air, voice breaking on a sob as he comes, too quick and powerful to pull Jensen off in time. Jensen takes it, though, bobbing his head up and down, using his hand, too, until Misha is empty and near limp. He rests his forearms on Jensen's shoulders and sags, grateful for Jensen's hands on the back of his thighs for extra support.

They both have to take a moment to catch their breath, Jensen using the time to pull Misha's shorts back up. Misha smiles and drops a kiss on the crown of Jensen's head. "You take such good care of me, baby." His tone is teasing, but there's meaning behind it all the same.

"Yeah," Jensen snorts. "Unlike you, who left me bare-assed."

Misha tips Jensen's head back kisses him, slow and sweet. Licks into Jensen's mouth, tongue soft, and searches for the taste of himself along the edge of Jensen's teeth, the ridges of the roof of his mouth. Satisfied he's gotten everything, he pulls back and presses their foreheads together. "I'll make up for it in the shower."

Jensen smacks him on the ass. "Damn right you will. Now move. My stomach won't clean itself."

Misha does, and kneels down to help Jensen with his shorts. Once Jensen's standing, Misha kisses him again, a small peck at the corner of his mouth. Jensen finds Misha's hand with his own and tangles their fingers together, squeezing tightly once, and tugs Misha toward the showers.


End file.
